Re: Totenbett
by Indecisive Invalid
Summary: Prussia's dying, and his condition worsens by the day. He manages to hide it from everyone until the end. Rewrite of a 2011/12 fic of the same name.
1. Chapter 1

Dissolution was a disgusting word, but a truthful one. An undesired necessity. When one lost, to the point where they had their country _dissolved_ – should such a term be considered humane – then that country's representative was nothing more than a page in a history book. When a million heartbeats that echoed in tandem with your own suddenly vanished, wasn't it too late?

This was inevitable. Prussia never knew the _when_ until death was at his doorstep, but he was well prepared.

Ever since the Berlin Wall had collapsed and the two halves of Germany merged, he knew his time was short. Prussia had become obsolete; an old kingdom turned defect. He scuffed his frayed nerves behind pronounced jowls and glinting teeth, and drowned his anxieties with cheap beer and vodka. Cigarettes were great for squashing the bug that insisted on sticking around in his chest.

Many people blamed Prussia's charge into recklessness on Russia. For others, such as the nation in question, the accusations fell on deaf ears. As East and West Germany lost their prefixes, Prussia's heart felt as though it were torn in two. Each citizen lost to his brother was another nail in the coffin. The mass transfer of so many people was dizzying for the loser, but bliss for the recipient.

It was like having the foundation upon which you stood for years was suddenly yanked out from under you. What small remainder allowed him to retain his status as a nation was being voraciously pillaged. Of course, his brother was completely unaware – he was the one receiving new citizens, after all. He was on cloud nine.

While Prussia waited for his final sunrise, numb from pain, Germany surrounded himself with paperwork and noisy Italians.

It was shocking what dissolution did to a nation – if anyone cared to notice. The mental and physical changes they underwent had no equal. As the previous owner was forced to forfeit their people and their land, it stretched on their sense of self. Distorted their very existence. It caused them to lash out, act completely unlike themselves. Were it not for a physical barrier chaining them to the ground, it would not be surprising if they turned violent.

As the echoes of thousands upon millions of minds dull, nothingness takes over. The sense of abandon clothes the dying nation like a blanket, madness creeping into the cracks where the presence of citizens used to fill them.

The nation becomes withdrawn – blindingly so.

As their situation progresses, things only become worse. Pain and change lock hands, and knock you out of the ring.

The heart shatters into as many pieces as there are citizens. Each fragment is a life. They stab at whatever may remain. All the dying nation knows is emptiness and a lifetime's worth of fatigue that gnaws at old bones and keeps them paralyzed where they lay.

When a country gains citizens, land, or military might, they transform dramatically. Of course – the reverse was also true. As the loss compounds, frailty becomes their dominant trait. They lose the strength to stand at attention, the power to tow vehicles. As it wears on them, eventually they will lose control of their own body; collapse, and waste away where they fell.

Many nations preferred to die alone for that reason. The experience was excruciating.

Prussia liked to pretend he was above general rules. But in this case, for once, he was not the exception. The thoughts of his people, which had comforted him for years as a sort of white noise in the back of his mind, were now barren. His sense of self was vanishing. He was German, yes. But he wasn't _Germany_.

 _And that was all that was left._

His brother was off doing his own thing. He'd have no time to waste any thoughts on Prussia, or even consider visiting him. But, just as a precaution, he had bolted his door shut and dragged numb legs all the way back to bed. Collapsed on it in a half-hearted 'fuck you' to the world that had put him in such a position.

The pain was centered on his core – at first, a distant throb. As the number of citizens thinned, it began to increase in intensity, until it **burned**. The urge to curl up was a powerful one, and the lull of being a safe, warm ball of death was incredibly alluring.

His arms and legs were weighed down like bricks, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to move, but eventually he managed. Arms wrapped around his knees, he thought he might have been proud of his accomplishment.

After a couple of minutes, he only felt tired. More so than before. Why had he wanted to curl into a ball? Well, fetal position was human in –

Right.

He wasn't human.

Similar to as when he was a child, time had become meaningless. The battery of the clock on the wall had been dead for weeks.

Something loud, but impossibly empty, reverberated in his mind. His muscles seized up, relaxing a moment after as a void filled his core. His last citizen had just been transferred to his brother. That was it. The stage play of his life was coming to a close. Now that the background noise had all but disappeared, he was keenly aware of his laboured, ragged breaths. Things were bound to get worse.

But if he could die without being completely insane, that would be alright. Lonely, but alright.

Perhaps he'd regret not telling his brother of his passing. Germany would inevitably find out; and while he was proud, intelligent, and hard-working, Ludwig was _not_ experienced with permanent nation death. Prussia knew that Germany took his continued existence for granted, and it would soon be ripped from him. After all, nothing bad could _ever_ happen to Prussia.

If Germany hated anything, it was losing control of a situation.

Maybe it was best that he never had control of Gilbert's life to begin with.

It was entrancing, how much he was thinking about his brother. Was he happy for him? Definitely. Germany would make their ancestors proud. Was he bitter? Maybe. Probably. But he was bitter at the world – not at his brother. Never at his brother.

If Germany were any less a soldier, he'd have thrown a massive party to celebrate his unification.

Knowing that his brother could feel none of what Prussia was feeling was a small comfort. They'd gone through so many of their people over the years, Prussia hoped that Germany would be the only one for a long, long time. Maybe the last; after all, the German people were united now.

Trapped in his thoughts as he was, Prussia was blissfully unaware of the aggravated pounding at his door. It didn't help that his senses were so jaded he may as well have been blind and deaf. Growing increasingly frustrated from the prolonged silence in his brother's room and the fervent insistence of a certain Italian, Germany ripped the handle off the door to Prussia's room and shouldered the door open.

Germany considered himself set in his ways, and was in no way a pushover. But even he had been put off when Italy had burst into his office and slammed his hands on the German's paperwork, drilling him in a way he'd never seen Italy interrogate someone.

A lot of it – all of it, actually – had been about Prussia. His whereabouts, his health, his nation status. It was an unnerving conversation to say the least; and at the end of it all, Italy had kicked Germany out of his own office, ordering him to check on his brother.

Seeing the state that Gilbert was now in, he would have to thank Italy later. His steps were quick but heavy as he approached his brother, and he hovered over the curled up, sweating, heaving body nervously. He could remove a bullet and dress a wound. He could see a man be executed right in front of him.

The sight of Prussia in such a state made him want to hurl. Hastily, he rolled the albino over so the two could meet eye to eye. The sudden jostle caused a soft, high-pitched whine to escape from the elder's throat in a dizzying blast of pain. To combat it, Prussia curled up tighter; easily overpowering his brother, Germany grabbed Prussia by the wrists and forcefully stretched him out.

He had to figure out where it hurt; but Prussia's gangly limbs felt like they were everywhere, and he couldn't get a decent grip on them as Prussia continued to squirm. He was obviously unaware of Germany's presence.

The minute the words tumbled out of his mouth, Germany regretted them. Until he realised that Prussia hadn't even reacted to his words.

"You're so annoying! Stop moving!" Normally, Germany would be little more than exasperated as his brother. But now Prussia was making noises somewhere between a moan and a groan, and he was visibly weak, and seeing his brother so _vulnerable_ was honest-to-god scaring the living daylights out of Germany.

Prussia, of course, was so far gone he heard nothing, and all he could work out was his brother's neatly combed hair. It was as though he was suspended in water; sounds were mostly muted, and his vision was becoming increasingly hazy. But the pain was dissipating – other than the jostle from Germany, the sudden appearance of his brother had done something to the emptiness inside him. Its presence had abated somewhat.

Awareness returned just long enough for Prussia to kick a foot out at his brother so he could roll over, face pressed into his pillow. He wheezed a broken 'go away' as his bed did its best impression of swallowing a nation whole. Grateful as he was for his brother's sudden appearance, the reality of death was also hanging heavily on his mind, and Prussia was _not_ about to bog down Germany's day with his own death.

He really, really didn't want his brother around. He'd rather die alone – like those before him. It was for the best.

Germany, however, felt his own composure further slipping. Yelling at Gilbert was one thing. It was rare, but it happened. His brother would laugh it off. But when Prussia's foot had caught him in the side of the head there was no power. And contrary to popular belief, Prussia was _strong_. Germany's confusion was giving way to a carnal fear that rose like bile in his throat.

He couldn't _understand_ , and that was why he was so scared. It was beyond his realm of control. He had an idea of what was happening, but he refused to believe it. It simply wasn't realistic.

When Germany never moved, an irrational anger rose from deep within Prussia's chest, shoving the pain away. It was blinding and _so_ unneeded but also expected. He was dying. It should have been painfully obvious, even to the densest of blockheads. He was dying, he wanted to be _alone_ , and that simple wish could not be granted. Since he lacked the energy to kindly tell his brother to _get the fuck out_ , he instead opted to press his face hard into his pillow, screwing his eyes shut. It was childish, and ultimately useless. But he was so _done_ , damnit.

Germany never moved. In fact, the younger nation only doubled in his effort to understand and mitigate the damage. He hefted his brother up by the waist with ease and forced Prussia to sit on the edge of his bed. With his brother's hands on his shoulders, Prussia leaned forward slightly, head bowed.

His eyes remained shut. He knew that they were not as vibrant as they once were. He could have been blind now, even. He knew that his eyesight would eventually go, as his body continued to shut down.

"Prussia, please. Look at me." Germany's voice echoed with a deep tenor that rumbled with his plead. Half of the sound was lost to Prussia's hearing. Breathing a soft 'no' in response, he refused to face what could completely halt his resolve about being alone.

Already half-mad, the barrier between what he was now and complete madness wasn't a difficult one to breach.

Germany's presence was suffocating. He needed to be alone. Yes. He wanted to be alone, so that – so that Germany wouldn't suffer.

 _But_ the emptiness was more or less gone now, and Germany's presence allowed Prussia to concentrate. It was a scary trade-off.

Germany being here must have been agonizing for him. He was suffering because Prussia was sufferi – no. That wasn't right. He was suffering because he was confused, and the situation was not under his control. The tension in the air was thick, and Prussia's heart pulsated with a lonely need. He wanted to be held, told everything was alright; but he also wanted Germany to go away, so he could go at it alone. So that Ludwig didn't have to watch him wither away.

Prussia was also unbearably anxious. About everything.

And his growing instability was only making everything worse. The emptiness was one thing, his mental state was another. And he was quickly losing the battle.

Germany pulled away for a moment to rub at his temples, groaning softly. His hands never made contact, however – lightning reflexes caught his brother as Prussia teetered forward almost immediately. His cheek was pressed against Germany's chest as the jostling sent shocks of pain through his body, and Prussia's breath caught in his throat.

"I can't…" It was soft, but it was there. An admission of defeat. He gave up, there was no amount of arguing that could be done that would make Germany leave. He had no strength to pretend anymore, and he was so completely _tired_ of fighting with himself he'd fully given up on pushing Ludwig away.

He knew what he wanted, anyway. He wanted his brother there – but what you wanted, wasn't always the best decision.

A tear trailed down one cheek, then another. They were silent until a grief-filled sob ripped itself out of his throat, and he nearly hurled right there. The floodgates were wide open after that.

A broken man from a broken time – that's all that Prussia was. Even in death, he was pathetic. Unable to sit up on his own, he leaned against his brother for support. Then he had the gall to have a complete mental breakdown on him. He didn't have the energy to fight his own tumultuous emotions anymore, so he just let them run rampant.

Sometimes, Germany thought he could catch what Prussia was saying. Most of it was wordless garble, but five words were clear as day:

 **I don't want to die.**

That confirmed what he suspected. Germany was no good at comfort; Italy forced it out of him, but it always made the blonde nation incredibly uneasy. But now, seeing the state his brother was in, he decided to suck it up and did what he thought was the right move. With no frame of reference, it felt incredibly stupid to do so even though it seemed to have some sort of effect on his brother. He hugged him.

Prussia only wailed harder.

In truth, it was terrifying to see his brother like this. Prussia had never cried – not even when the wall had been torn down. Prussia had emerged from the rubble, a little scuffed but nothing more. Even Germany felt that he was ready to cry. Instead, Prussia had laughed, wrapped an arm around Germany's shoulders, and announced he'd pay for all of the beer that night. And it was so _Gilbert_ that Germany never thought about it.

He had difficulty with coming to terms with the fact that the quaking mess in his arms was actually his brother. He was unbearably light, and he was certain that if he looked at Prussia the wrong way his brother would snap in two. Never in history had he been this delicate.

He knew what was happening. But he was desperate that it was something else – something preventable.

So he asked anyway.

"Please, Prussia, tell me what's wrong." Prussia was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to understand him. He blabbered and cried and whined. But when Germany called for his attention a second time, he used what little strength he had left to shove his brother away, collapsing back onto his bed. Shoulders trembling, he hid his face by turning his head to the side. Soft sobs continued to slip through his lips.

"Just go away!" Those words were clearer than almost anything else, but Germany continued to pester his brother.

Prussia's sense of self was shot. He teetered between wanting his brother and wanting him to go away. Alone, not alone. Sane, mad.

Everything was a blur.

"Prussia, please. I just-"

" **Go fuck yourself and get out of my room!** " The venom and pure malice that seeped in through Prussia's words froze the air around them. It chilled Germany's core, and when Prussia realised what he said, he froze. For that moment, the world was crystal clear.

Never before had Gilbert cursed at his brother like that before. Something foreign lodged itself in Germany's gut and he lowered his expression before righting himself stiffly. Prussia's vacant, shocked stare went in a totally opposite direction. Both brothers were silent for several seconds, before Germany turned around.

The echo of his retreating footsteps drove stakes into Prussia's heart.

He did the one thing he had promised himself he'd never do. He yelled at West.

No. No, no, no – he couldn't die and leave Germany thinking that he hated him. The split second of anger was gone, and now all that was left was the ache of his rapidly deteriorating condition and the burn of shame.

And if Germany left like that, then he would be well and truly alone.

His heart broke in half just from the thought.

"I'm sorry. I – I can't keep it together." He never took himself for a rambler, but as soon as he started talking, he found that he couldn't stop.

"Everyone is gone and everything is silent and I know **I'm dying** but it wasn't supposed to be like this. My heart's in pieces and my body's tearing itself from the inside out and it hurts, and I want it all to end but I can't even _make_ it end. I'm just sitting here, wasting your time, because I can't just fucking **die** already. I'd never want to hurt you. Never." No more than a handful of words in, and Germany had stopped walking. He didn't dare turn to his brother, in case the eye contact made him shut up, but he got the gist of his message. Prussia was never the kind to ask for help or charity. He had always tackled the world like a one-man army, full of courage and enthusiasm that had been quite frankly infectious to those around him.

Prussia was dead silent after that. A pin could drop, and it would echo. Stiffly, Germany turned back to his brother, marched over to him, and wrapped him in as tight a hug as he dare. He refused to let go.

"West-"

"Please. Don't talk." Even if it would only give him a few extra seconds with his brother, everything was precious now. Even Prussia had admitted it – admitted that he was dying. Even if all he could do was hold his brother and imagine that this was all a dream, at least his brother could remain tangible in his arms for a little while longer. Prussia no longer had the energy to fight, and simply accepted his brother's hold, melting into it.

A while passed, with the two brothers embracing in silence, before Germany finally worked up the courage to speak up.

"How long?"

A weak, half-hearted shrug was his response.

"Too soon." The two brothers remained immobile for a time after that. Prussia nearly melted against Germany; unconsciously, the younger brother rubbed circles into the dying nation's back as his mind swam with all the implications of Prussia dying, the other hand keeping Prussia secured against his chest.

This was his big brother – the one who had spent more than twenty years under Russian rule so that Germany didn't have to. And he was going to die soon. With the collapse of the wall, East and West Germany were merging. That meant that there was no need of two representatives of Germany, and there would only be one single, unified Germanic nation.

A particularly violent and sudden hacking fit caught Germany off guard and pulled him from his thoughts. On high alert, he peered down at his brother's pale and trembling form. Gilbert was ghastly pale, blood trickling from his nose and the corner of his mouth. This was not the Prussia he remembered – but it was still his brother. He didn't want to lose him.

He squeezed him tighter. He had no words for how sorry he was, and Prussia seemed to understand, as he cuddled up just a tiny bit. Neither brother had anything to say, so their time together was spent in silence. A silence that was over all too soon, as a sudden pang in his chest had Prussia suddenly heaving, eyes wide, lurching forward.

Feeling completely useless, Germany's hold on Prussia only tightened.

"I need to lay down. Please." Silently dejected but understanding, Germany eased his brother back down on the bed, but continued to hold one of his hands. Prussia's eyes were closed. Occasionally, his brows furrowed, and he would grimace. A short hacking spell had Prussia turning his head to the side to cough out a fat, coagulated glob of dark blood.

It stained the white sheets red.

Germany ignored it. A pointless pet peeve that he couldn't bother to focus on right now.

Helpless, Germany could only hold his brother's hand as Prussia's body destroyed him from the inside out.

"I didn't want to see you, at first. But I'm glad I did." He could tell he was losing him – Prussia was losing the battle to live. His eyes were clouded, and his lids constantly fluttered, as though he was on the cusp between the two worlds. Germany didn't know what to say as a response, so he said nothing.

As Prussia began to hum the soft hymn of an ancient German song, perhaps as a way to ground himself, Germany shuffled slightly closer to his brother. The air was thick with apprehension but he was also well aware that this was it. This was the final act in Prussia's life.

He didn't even notice when Gilbert's steady humming had fallen into silence, as he had become wrapped up in his own thoughts. When he did finally take note, however, Prussia was staring at the ceiling; eyes glazed over, sightless stare half-lidded.

Could a nation experience heartbreak? It felt like it. Germany made a disgusting, choked noise, squeezing the limp hand he'd held this entire time. He couldn't help it. It was _too much_. He couldn't take it anymore. His brother was dying – dead – and Germany didn't even know until the final hour.

What kind of brother was he?

He was beyond frustrated, not to mention confused. Prussia certainly hadn't been a saint; they all held their fair shares of past crimes. But it was Prussia who was dealing with the consequences. Prussia who was suffering from the unification. Prussia who was _disappearing_. A rare show of emotion spread across the German's face, and he pressed his brother's still-warm hand to his cheek.

A soft, breathless laugh caught his attention.

"Is my little West crying?" His voice was nearly non-existent. Maybe Germany imagined it. Maybe Prussia was already gone, taken away to wherever the other ancients were. Maybe he would be ridiculed for dying so young. Maybe they would pity him. Maybe Prussia could finally rest or drink himself into oblivion for eternity.

It sounded like a very Prussia thing to do. He deserved it, anyway. Prussia had been an amazing elder brother.

And Germany told him so. Prussia's smile, weak as it was, could have ignited stars. He gave Germany the strongest hand squeeze he could muster – which was nearly nothing.

A third set of hands came up and circled around Germany's and Prussia's. They were slightly tanned, and much smaller. Germany glanced over at Italy, who was smiling despite the tears trailing down his cheeks. Prussia felt the Italian's presence as well, though he could not see him.

He'd forgotten that Italy had been through this many times before. With his grandpa, among others.

Prussia attempted to crane his head in Italy's direction – when the nation spoke, he changed his angle. It was almost shocking how calm Italy was. But again, he was used to such loss.

"Is it already time for you to go?" Germany remained quiet, the trepidation in Italy's voice speaking enough for the both of them. Besides, Prussia had accepted it by now. He was too far gone to fight it either way.

Prussia made a vague sound of affirmation.

"Take care of West. Make sure he gets out sometimes." Prussia's voice trailed off as the ghost of a smile remained on his features. Italy beamed, as much as the situation called for.

"Of course." With a final, grateful sigh, Prussia took to staring into nothingness once more as Germany fought to keep himself from crying. Ultimately, he failed, and sobbed against his brother's and Italy's hands. The Italian rubbed circles in Germany's back.

Time passed in silence, filled only with Germany's grief-filled sniffles.

Italy was the first to notice.

Prussia was no longer breathing, and he no longer blinked. The smile was still there, appearing as though it had been etched in stone. In a tense silence, Italy used his free hand to close Prussia's eyes. The movement was enough to pull Germany out of his own thoughts, and he had one long, final look at his brother.

His brother, whose heart no longer beat.

Whose lungs _no longer kept him alive._

He was unnervingly silent as Italy closed his eyes. Prussia's ruby irises that he had been well known for would never again see the light of day. Inhaling sharply, he chucked his dead brother's hand away, allowing it to flop limply onto the bed. Italy solved the problem by splaying Prussia's fingers over his stomach. It gave the appearance of the German simply being asleep.

After all, Prussia didn't die. Couldn't die. He had survived much worse.

Silently turning to Germany, Italy hugged the grieving blonde in silence. Germany reciprocated with far too much strength, but Italy said nothing. He understood better than most.

"It's alright," He whispered, rubbing Germany's back. Germany was in such a state of shock that it broke Italy's heart. He wasn't made to break, but here he was. The shell of strong, determined, straightforward Germany. It was broken, sobbing Germany.

He carefully moved both of them back to the lounge. Sitting down on the couch, he dialled a familiar friend while Germany buried himself deeper into Italy's side.


	2. Chapter 2

Phone calls from Italy were rare – nearly nonexistent. Austria couldn't recall a time where he'd received such a cryptic message from the normally bubbly Italian. There'd been the distant echo of sniffling, and Austria's demand for information was met with a request for his presence and Hungary's, before the line went dead. He'd hesitated at first, considering the possibility of a prank; but this was _Italy_ , and he was about at enigmatic as an empty box.

Eventually, his curiosity got the best of him and Austria suited up, uniting with Hungary before heading out to Germany's home. Hungary bristled with excitement, coming up with all sorts of zany theories for the mystery visit up until they were standing at Germany's front door. Two crisp, yet soft knocks echoed on the aging wooden frame; a few seconds of silence passed, with no response from inside.

"I'm coming! Hold on a second!" Hand poised to knock again, Austria dropped his hand. Blissfully unaware of the situation that awaited them, Hungary forced herself to calm down and she tucked some hair behind her ear, bouncing slightly on the spot as the soft _whump_ of socked feet approached the door. Italy opened the door in silence, standing slightly out of the way. His silence oddly out of character, both it and his expression sedated Hungary, and caused a knot of anxiety to ball up in Austria's stomach.

The minute the two of them moved into the entrance, Italy threw the door shut somewhat forcefully in his haste and retreated into the den without sparing a second glance in Austria or Hungary's direction. The two of them pulled their shoes off, placing them to the side; between Prussia's boots that he demanded were to be wall mounted, and Germany's, that were neatly placed to the side.

Both brothers had a knack for neatness; their shared home almost looked like no one lived there. It was a good thing that Italy was messy enough for the both of them.

When the two of them finally migrated to the living room, Austria remained at the doorway while Hungary strode in swiftly, taking a seat next to Germany. All enthusiasm for the visit had faded the moment they'd seen Italy and Germany's respective positions. Italy had his arms wrapped around a morose Germany, whose expression was a contortion between angry and helpless, with red-rimmed eyes and an uncharacteristic flush to his cheeks.

It was obvious he'd been crying – which was probably the greatest mystery of all.

Austria could only stare uncomprehendingly, motivation to visit withering at the sight of such a private interaction. Germany was strong, both emotionally and physically – crying was rare from him, and he had more reasons to be overjoyed than upset. He'd gained land and citizens; _his brother had been returned to him_. What could have been so devastating to his composure?

Eventually Germany returned from the land of soul-searching as he became more aware of those in his home. He quickly cleared his throat and straightened his posture slightly, desperately willing himself to look strong. His eyes and throat stung, and his nose was runny; Italy quietly handed him a tissue and Germany took the chance to dab at his own eyes and cheeks, looking away remorsefully.

"Sorry. I…" Unusually at a loss for words, Italy smiled resolutely and pinched Germany's lips together. Germany eyed him quietly but made no move to bat Italy's hand away.

"Don't be sorry. I think it's good that Germany is showing that he cares. I think if I was in your position…" His eyes dulled for a moment as his mind wandered, expression waning. Germany squeezed Italy's hand quietly in appreciation, and the Italian snapped back to life, giving him a thousand-watt smile that had faded at the edges.

"I'm going to go show Austria and Hungary. You stay here." Italy stood up and beckoned for the aforementioned nations to follow him, moving up the staircase at a slow, taciturn pace. Hungary's hands fumbled for the cloth of her dress, squeezing it much like a stress ball. Italy sent her an empathetic smile as they stopped at a closed door, having finally made it upstairs.

Italy had his hand on the doorknob, and he paused. His earlier composure wilted, and his shoulders drooped; his eyes shone with unshed tears and he stepped back, his smile having long since died. He addressed Austria directly.

"I… I'm sorry. I can't do this." He gestured vaguely to the offending door before crossing his arms, hugging himself.

It felt like a horror movie – the tension, the anxiety, the silent arc of the door as it swung open slowly and rather anticlimactically. But the scene before him shook Austria to the core.

Prussia laid down in his bed, rigid with one hand splayed across his stomach. But there was no telltale rise and fall of his chest, and his hair wasn't pillow-tossed and matted like it would have been if he was just _sleeping_.

No.

Austria knew instantly – though he desperately wished he didn't.

Hungary had taken her attention to Italy, and as such was oblivious to the tragedy before them. Italy had his arms wrapped around her torso, head on her shoulder, eyes deliberately turned away from Prussia's corpse. Italy's behaviour had left her restless and her hope was that in calming him, it would calm her, too.

Wishful thinking.

Austria approached the corpse slowly, drinking in the _everything_ that Prussia had left behind. His eyes traced the contours of Prussia's lax face, the bony outline on his fingers, even the faded pallor of his hair; once a bright white, it had since turned ashy. Everything about the situation felt so _wrong_. Prussia had been an obstinate, stubborn, noisy bastard – and this merger, much smaller than previous ones, should not have snuffed out such a lively soul.

Yet here lay what remained of Prussia's legacy.

A body that would fade within a few days.

Guilt swarmed in Austria's chest at his next action, but he _had_ to turn away. Face pale, he spun on his heel to face Hungary and Italy. Her soothing movements had done nothing to appease the Italian, and he'd finally given in to his grief; face blotchy and filled with tears, his grip was iron against her cloth. Hungary glanced at Austria helplessly, person of focus slowly shifting until her gaze rested on the prone body at the far end of the room.

The moment where her heart stopped was _tangible_ , and her grip on Italy tightened instinctively. The two of them moved into the room slowly, Italy following Hungary's lead; her wide-eyed stare on Prussia's face never wavered.

With Italy's grip on her like a vice, Hungary had difficulty moving to what was left of her friend. Voice thick with regret, she called his name, pleading _desperately_ for him to wake up in a voice that was much higher than her usual tone.

Her response was the echo of a choked sob from downstairs.

She peered at Austria pleadingly and he worked deftly to pry Italy's hands from Hungary; the sound of Germany's grief from the den, coupled with Italy finally reaching his breaking point had spurred the nation into action. Shifting slightly, Italy turned to wrap his arms around Austria, who finally felt the crush that was Italy's hug.

On a normal day, he would have flushed and shoved the Italian away. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Austria reciprocated the hug, albeit with some hesitation.

Hungary, meanwhile, had steeled her resolved and brushed past Austria. Perching herself on the edge of the bed, she poked the prone Prussia's cheek, her own expression lighting up as his head lolled to the side.

He didn't move after that, and her smile – and the faint hope that still resided within her – were squashed. She took the hand that had been on his stomach and squeezed it gently. It was unresponsive and cold – she bit her cheek, hard enough to draw blood. The chill from his hand ran through her and down to her feet, and as knowledge of his death set in more, her self-control drifted.

Her other hand carded through Prussia's hair, its softness allowing her fingers to sweep through it gracefully. Austria made his way over to her, sitting down next to her while Italy remained at his feet. He'd made no effort to stifle his tears; one hand clamped Austria's tightly while the other gripped his pants with equal strength.

The next block of time had been spent in relative silence. Hungary had focused her ministrations on Prussia, while Austria did his best to spread his focus out evenly between Italy and Prussia. He'd ended up placing his free hand with Hungary's and Prussia's, eyes committing the contour of Prussia's body to memory. Italy's cascade of tears eventually slowed, and he rubbed at his eyed pathetically with the hand that had been gripping his pants.

In his visual adventure on Prussia's body – with the last stop being his face – Austria paused, brows creasing.

"He's smiling," He mentioned offhandedly, and Hungary verified his statement the same time as Italy craned his torso to sneak a peek too.

It wasn't a cocky, holier-than-thou grin to end all grins; the corners of Prussia's lips had curled up somewhat uncharacteristically. He'd looked like he died _happy_ , and probably painlessly. While it brought a sense of satisfaction, it was also a stark reminder that his death was very, _very_ fresh. Out of the newcomers, it was the hardest on Hungary by far. She had shared a lot of personal history with Prussia, even more than she shared with Austria.

And she'd been _married_ to Austria for a time.

Hastily ripping her hand away from Austria's, she covered her sleeves with her palms and pressed them to her eyes, willing the tears away. It proved to be futile – as stubborn as Prussia had been, her tears continued to fall. She was a silent crier; only the trembling of her shoulders and her curled in posture gave her away. Austria pressed a hand to the small of her back, while Italy stood and trapped her in a hug from behind.

After a moment's deliberation, Austria joined them. He'd have been a liar if he said he didn't want to be part of the group huddle – though some serious coercion would have been required for him to admit it. His arms trembled as he squeezed the two of them gently.

It was Italy and Hungary. He'd spent a lot of time with the two of them, and they'd seen him at his worst; he could afford a little empathy.

No one outside of the four of them knew of Prussia's death – the news hadn't spread. Maybe it was for the best. Prussia was like a storm, always leaving evidence of his presence; but such a stringent absence surely wouldn't have gone unnoticed. Especially not by Spain or France, or the America lookalike.

The magnitude of Prussia's presence was unfathomable. The loneliness from the loss hadn't hit yet, but it was getting there along with a thousand and one realizations.

Austria would no longer house a drunk albino on one of his late-night visits, running his mouth about some previous conquest or another. He'd always acted annoyed, but Gilbert had been an old friend, and it felt wrong to not humour the other in some way. Austria would miss that. It had been so long since a nation had died, and everyone had grown comfortable with the thought of 'forever'.

Nations died. Every soul had a stop button.

Prussia was someone whose presence had been taken for granted. The words 'wrong' and 'Prussia' were inconceivable in the same sentence. He was always okay, always moving forward, never dwelling on the past unless it was an 'awesome' feat of his, in some way.

And when he'd gone missing for several days, he'd been alone **in his own home**. Sanity slipping away, health ebbing.

Prussia was gone. _Gone_. It was a fact that Hungary had difficulty coming to terms with; _how_ would life go on? He'd been so integral to her life, a thousand years felt like time had slipped by like nothing. It was meaningless, and what made her days special was gone. No more drunk Germans, no more three a.m. phone calls about some conquest in the past.

No more laughter, no more competition.

 **No more Gilbert.**

The final dam that had been barring Hungary's emotions from wrecking her snapped like a twig, and she _wailed_. She pressed her face into Prussia's shirt, hands fisting in the fabric; she said nothing and cried, becoming increasingly inconsolable by the second.

Her own crying had triggered a second bout in Italy, who hiccupped and launched himself at Austria. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Austria eventually focused on Italy. He held the Italian in his arms in a way similar to how he did when Italy was still a child; the Italian latched onto him like a baby.

The front door suddenly slammed open and the sound of plaster cracking echoed in the house; the three nations, who had fallen into a long, introspective silence, all jumped. Austria stood with Italy, while Hungary barely flinched from where she still rested against Prussia's chest.

"Go check on Germany," Austria urged gently, nudging the Italian. Italy nodded, wiped his face, and was off like a shot back to the living room. Austria spared Hungary only a glance before he made his way to the front door.

He couldn't quite fathom who had smashed Germany's door open like that. Burglars? It seemed unlikely, but possible.

It was a shame that Austria was sort of a sissy. He hated fighting; but Germany was certainly in no position to.

Catching sight of the intruders at the door, he almost sighed in relief.

It was France and Spain. When Spain and Austria locked eyes, a silent message passed between them and the Spaniard's brows, already knit in worry, further creased. Even if Austria's presence wasn't that questionable, Italy rocketing past the two of them without so much as a greeting was alarming. France, forever the drama queen, was deathly silent as he frowned at Austria questionably.

A rather alien sound came from the living room, and the three of them glanced to the source of the noise. The voice had been deep in tenor like Germany's, but it sounded so _broken_ that Spain and France couldn't fathom it actually being the blonde nation. They glanced back at Austria imploringly.

"What is going on?" Spain's hands fiddled with the hem of his shirt anxiously as he glanced between France and Austria, the two of them staring one another down. France's eyes remained hardened and steeled, unmoving as he fought an invisible battle for answers from Austria. The Austrian eventually relented, averting his gaze, hands clenching at his sides.

"Follow me." He muttered uselessly and spun around, placing one foot on the stairway after a pause.

"Take your shoes off, and _then_ follow me," He was quick to correct himself before he began up the stairs again. France and Spain quickly did as they were told and followed Austria.

Hungary's body covered most of Prussia, but Spain and France did not lollygag in the same way that Hungary and Austria had when it came to approaching their deceased friend. Spain led the charge in this case, gripping France's sleeve as he dragged him into the room; France was stupefied, staring at Prussia's feet. Spain was a fervent denier of the worst and paused when Prussia's face came into view. Surprise and horror followed one another in quick succession in Spain's expression, contorting from one to the other at lightning speeds. France remained carefully neutral, lips pressed in a thin line with brows furrowed.

He may have been a drama queen when it didn't matter, but when it _did,_ France was a master at dealing with his emotions.

Spain, not so much.

Spain wrapped his arms around his friend and pressed his forehead to France's shoulder; it was only once he felt dampness on his shirt that France finally wound his arms around the Iberian nation, pressing his cheek to Spain's temple. From where he stood, France's line of sight was directly on Prussia. Similar to Austria, he took in the contours of his friend's body, the way he still had the ghost of a smile on his lips; his only reaction was to give Spain a squeeze.

Spain squeezed back, and then there was a pause.

The third squeeze never came. They were a _trio_ , weren't they? There couldn't be two squeezes. That wasn't how a trio worked.

France squeezed Spain a second time, but the assurance felt hollow. It wasn't the same, and they both knew that.

Austria stood nearby awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do. On one hand, he could leave; but what was the next step after that? They couldn't leave Prussia's body there until it faded. It felt wrong – far too somber and quiet for someone like Prussia. France's considerations were similar to Austria's, and he gestured to Austria before nudging Spain.

"Come. Let's see how our host doing." Spain nodded against France's shoulder before he pulled away. Wiping at his eyes quietly, he slapped on his best rendition of a Prussia-esque smile. France's smile was quieter and much more tamed as he led the Spaniard out; Austria stepped up behind them, leading Hungary out by the wrist.

She stared at Prussia's face until he was out of sight.

In the living room, Italy and Germany sat on one couch while the others were on the one across from them. Hungary remained silent while staring at her lap, sniffling occasionally. Spain and Germany sported similar expressions, though the feeling of _absolute catastrophe_ radiated from Germany in a way that could be physically felt. Spain had no such aura.

France and Austria both remained pensive, staring holes into specific spots in the far wall.

Italy watched everyone quietly, arms wrapped around Germany. Despite his earlier grief, the moment he was back with Germany he'd acted like he hadn't been crying at all. Sometimes, everyone forgot how well Italy could piece himself together when the time _truly_ called for it. However, Italy was also a ticking time bomb; he would eventually reach his limit like he had earlier.

Out of everyone, Germany was certainly taking it the hardest. His normally pristine clothes were rumpled and wrinkled, and his bangs – normally gelled back – hung over his eyes like a curtain of melancholy. He was red to the ears, across his nose and cheeks. His eyes were blemished enough that he looked like he'd been sunburnt. His bottom lip had been chewed raw and his knuckles were white.

No wonder Italy was so kept together. Germany was enough of a mess for ten nations over.

It was Spain who offered their next step in a soft voice, a shaky smile tinting his features.

"I think Gilbert would kick our asses if we didn't give him a big funeral." France peered at Spain in surprise and smiled faintly, agreeing wholeheartedly. The others nodded as well, citing murmurs of agreement, and Italy beamed.

"I think that's a super duper idea! Don't you think so, Germany?" The nation in question was silent for a moment, slowly nodding. He offered Italy a weak smile.

"I think he'd like that." The decision had been unanimous; give Prussia a kickass funeral or suffer the consequences.

They slaved for hours over what to do. The problem with a nation dying was that their bodies simply faded after a few days – so any time wasted was time they'd never get back. First came the invitations, then the location. When the subject of burial came up – no matter how superficial the practice was to him – Germany quickly excused himself from the room. No one blamed him.

They'd agreed that only the most important people would be there; while not a large funeral, it would be a precious one. Their invitations did not spread much farther than those that were occupying room anyway, but it was still a topic of deliberation. They'd also decided on an authentic burial; hand-carved tombstone and custom-built coffin, like good old times.

And finally, location. Prussia never spoke of him, but they'd all known how important his grandfather had been to him. Even if he had long since faded, Prussia had created a tombstone special for Germania. He'd also made a tombstone for his favourite leader, Frederick the Great. They stood side by side, in a meadow far removed from even dirt roads. Hungary was the only one who had a general idea of where it was, and so her job had been to hunt down the graves.

Everyone else was eventually given their respective jobs, and they split up. Italy was to stay with Germany and keep him company, try to warm him up to the idea of the funeral or at least help him sort out his thoughts. France took to cooking and cleaning; extra mess stressed Germany out, and with the people and work that would be going on for the next few days, everything would be a disaster.

Austria was to prepare Prussia's body – arguably, he had the most painful job of all. He was the only one that was going to see the dead nation nearly constantly.

Spain had gone out for materials. He was the one in charge of making the coffin and the tombstone; the only other one who was good at woodworking was Germany, but it was almost cruel to get him to build the coffin that would house his brother.

Time passed swiftly for all of them.

And on the third day without Prussia, they held the funeral.


End file.
